


Second Chances

by jamlockk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Happy Ending, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Pining Sherlock, Victor Trevor is an asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 06:22:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4735712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock stares at the email, then reads it again even though its contents are already committed indelibly into his brain. He closes his eyes and unconsciously brings the fingers of his right hand to stroke across his lips, nervous gesture he hasn't allowed himself to indulge in for a very long time. The memories swim through his mind's eye, the skin on his arms prickles as he recalls the sensation of Victor's touch, the sound of his voice, the dull edge of his smile. His cold goodbye, his grip on Sherlock's wrist as he pulled Sherlock close to whisper poisonously in his ear, the glint of satisfaction in his eyes at Sherlock's struggles to contain his tears."</p><p>Sherlock takes a case which brings him close to a painful past, but this could help him to take the chance for the love he has always desired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Chances

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags on this one. My Victor is based on my personal experience and he is an utter asshole. Sometimes bad stuff happens and shitty people are shitty. Take good care of yourself and seek help and support when you need it. 
> 
> Beta'd by the ever-wonderful [Ewebie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie).

Sherlock stares at the email, then reads it again even though its contents are already committed indelibly into his brain. He closes his eyes and unconsciously brings the fingers of his right hand to stroke across his lips, nervous gesture he hasn't allowed himself to indulge in for a very long time. The memories swim through his mind's eye, the skin on his arms prickles as he recalls the sensation of Victor's touch, the sound of his voice, the dull edge of his smile. His cold goodbye, his grip on Sherlock's wrist as he pulled Sherlock close to whisper poisonously in his ear, the glint of satisfaction in his eyes at Sherlock's struggles to contain his tears.

That had been the last time Sherlock had seen Victor Trevor, years ago now, but the memories are akin to a bucket of cold water to the face. Loathing and disgust at his younger self wash over Sherlock as he sits there, laptop still balanced on his knees, remembering.

He startles at a hand on his shoulder and looks up to find John smiling down at him.

"I asked if you wanted Chinese or Indian for dinner tonight, you were miles away apparently," John says. "Tidying up your mind palace?"

Sherlock shakes his head and John peers at the email still displayed on the screen.

"Oh right, case then? Anything interesting? Still need to get dinner in you, mind. You haven't eaten a thing since yesterday."

He squeezes Sherlock's shoulder briefly and wanders off into the kitchen to dig out the takeaway menus. No need, they always order their favourites anyway, but John likes the routine.

Sherlock immediately commits the feeling of John's hand on his shoulder, that all-too-brief point of contact, to memory. He is once again filled with self-reproach at his pathetic need to be close to John somehow. To feel the gentle brush of their hands as he passes John his mug of tea, the weight of John's body leaning against him as John dozes in the taxi home after a long case. For weeks afterwards he'd felt the warmth of John's body close to him. Even though there is many an event in their shared history which form dreadful memories, the times he's been so close to John have been imprinted on his very flesh.

And that's the problem. Of course John is back here, putting up with fingers in the freezer and beakers of acid on the table. John seems happy, content, laughs more easily than he has done for some time. It makes Sherlock so very, stupidly, happy that John has remained by his side.

But it also feels so very fragile. They've fallen back into their routines, but it's still tentative and a little uncertain. It's only been a few months since... and for all that they have managed to settle into normalcy (well their version of normalcy), they seem to be waiting for the other shoe to drop. It's as though they are both aware of the _something_ that hangs between them, the thick warmth in the air, the affection that has always been on the wrong side of just close friends, but neither wants to jeopardise the balance they've found. Sometimes Sherlock wonders what would happen if he just broke the spell over them, just said it out loud as he aches to, just threw caution to the wind and kissed John.

But he won't. He can't lose what he has now, can't risk pushing John away entirely. He thinks sometimes that John feels it too, the pull on both of them, bringing them ever closer to the precipice. As soon as he notices it though, it darts away and disappears. John has gotten better at hiding certain things from Sherlock, and Sherlock has always had difficulty reading John's moods exactly right. And if he were ever to take that step, finally admit to John what he's known for so much of their friendship - that he is desperately, wholly, completely in love with John and has been since the very first time their eyes met - he has to get it exactly right. There is no margin for error.

This is not his area. He has made a similar mistake once before and he will not repeat it. He is surer now, no longer the lonely kid, craving connection, vulnerable and easy to use.

Which is why, when he glances back down at the invitation sitting innocently open in his lap, Sherlock quickly types his response.

**I'll take the case. SH**

******

**And do you suspect this is the wisest course of action, dear brother? MH**

**I'd have thought you would be delighted that I'm sorting out this mess for you. SH**

**Of course. I am certainly pleased that Mr Telford's... difficulties will be addressed. Though do please try to be discreet. Perhaps more than your usual level of circumspection, if at all possible. MH**

**My way is more fun. SH**

**Discretion is the better part of valour. Need I remind you? MH**

**Icing is the better part of cake, is it not? You are, after all, the expert. SH**

**I am merely expressing anticipation that this case should be resolved both expeditiously and with the utmost confidentiality. It is for the best for all involved. MH**

**It'll be dealt with. Happy? SH**

**Provided you provide a satisfactory conclusion to the issue, very. MH**

**Mycroft...**

**Solve your case, Sherlock. And try to avoid any unnecessary... drama. MH**

**I am not a child anymore Mycroft. I will handle this how I see fit. Keep your pointy bloody nose out. SH**

**Very well. Do be sure to pass on my regards to Mr Trevor, I have wondered after his well-being since you last saw him. MH**

**Fuck off.**

******

_It started slowly. The residence halls were virtually silent over Christmas, as most students had returned home for the holidays. It was peaceful compared to term time, when the soundtrack was the loud music, louder conversation and general inanity of Sherlock's peers._

_When he first moved into his tiny room, Sherlock was the subject of many an admiring gaze. Those few brave individuals who spoke to him however soon warned off any others and Sherlock suddenly found himself back in the same position he'd occupied throughout his schooling. Ridiculed, pranked, avoided except when offered money to complete assignments._

_Quiet but not shy, blunt but not deliberately hurtful unless provoked, academically far beyond his (older) classmates, Sherlock was isolated for much of his university career. And although he would never admit to it even now, years later, lonely._

_So when one of the most popular lads in his year smiled at him in passing on his way to his room, Sherlock was immediately both puzzled and suspicious. Victor Trevor was well-liked, outgoing and more intelligent than most of their peers (although not quite a genius). With his honey blonde curls, strong jaw, tall frame and mischievous blue eyes, he easily charmed students and faculty alike. Much of the idle gossip Sherlock could not help overhearing on the rare occasions he ventured into the shared kitchen centred around who Victor was going out with or sleeping with at any given time. It was generally agreed that, though a bit of a tart, Victor was the BNOC to pull._

_That first incident in the hallway gradually became a warm grin every time they passed each other. Sherlock never reciprocated; even when they were the only two residents staying over the the winter, awaiting the start of the new term, he was reluctant to invite any attention or further attempts to befriend him. But Victor persisted in being pleasant, greeting him when they were both using the kitchen, or coming in from the cold, damp winter weather. Every time, with that bloody (gorgeous) smile or a friendly wave._

_It was New Years Eve before they spoke to each other. The knock on Sherlock's door startled him out of a long and fascinating article on chemical signatures in perfumes. Throwing the journal across the desk next to the bed, Sherlock sat bolt upright and wondered if perhaps someone had come to check on him. He hadn't meant to remain in his room for quite so long, it was just that one journal article had led to another and he'd wanted to take copious notes while what he'd read was fresh in his mind. Two days without food was probably not going to go down well with the hall warden._

_Sighing, expecting to be met by the disgruntled warden who, despite her responsibility for student welfare seemed to regard Sherlock as a spoiled, nuisance child, he pushed himself up from his bed and trudged to the door. He flung it open, ready to launch a barrage of deductions into the sour woman's face._

_It took him a moment to realise that instead of the warden Victor was standing at his door. It took a further moment to realise that he was standing in just his pyjamas, staring open mouthed, frowning at the so-called hall hottie._

_"Sherlock, right? I'm Victor. I just thought I'd stop by, wish you a happy new year." Victor's voice was smooth and soft, obviously designed to make the object of his attentions lean in closer, all the better to hear those dulcet tones. Pulling himself together and ignoring the fact that he was clad only in thin pyjama bottoms and a ratty t-shirt, Sherlock merely nodded and went to push the door closed. Victor's raised hand stopped him._

_"Wait, I... I was hoping to get to know you a bit. You know, since we're the only ones here right now."_

_Sherlock's disdainful eyebrow did nothing to put off his visitor. Victor lifted his other hand and jostled a bottle of whisky. The amber liquid sloshed noisily. "Just have one quick drink with me, see in the new year, then I'll get out of your hair."_

_Oh. Well. One quick drink couldn't hurt, could it? Victor's sincere smiles had been a welcome change from the usual tedium and solitude Sherlock had grown used to in the past few months. Maybe, just one?_

_Before he really knew what he was doing Sherlock opened the door a little wider and stepped back to let Victor into his room. The soft smile broadened into a grin and Victor winked as he reached for two glasses sitting on the desk._

_"Wait! Um, not those ones," Sherlock yelped. Those had had sulphuric acid in them until last week. He rummaged in a box beside the wardrobe and handed over two clean highballs his mother had packed, still wrapped with newspaper. "Here."_

_"Thanks," Victor replied, pouring a dram into each. He gave one to Sherlock, tipping his own glass until they clinked together in a toast. "Sláinte."_

_Sherlock looked down at the whisky in his glass (Glenfiddich, twelve years old, sweet honey and fruit on the palate, gift from an older brother), and took a sip. The whisky burned pleasantly down into his chest and he stifled a small cough as the malty strength hit the back of his throat. Victor laughed, the sound seeming a little too loud in Sherlock's ears._

_"Yeah, first one's always the strongest," Victor said. He gestured around the small room, turning to set the bottle down on the bedside table. "So what are you working on in here?"_

_Sherlock followed Victor's gaze; books, papers, journals scattered over the scratched surface of the desk, filched flasks, pipettes and assorted glassware from the chemistry labs stacked in the corner, notebooks and sheet music at the foot of the bed. "I have a few ongoing projects," Sherlock answered quietly._

_"Is that a skull?!" Victor exclaimed, pointing with his glass to Billy perched atop the wardrobe. Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes before humming his positive answer._

_"Weird," Victor murmured, his eyes sliding slowly up the length of Sherlock's body. He looked away and around the room again. The intent in his gaze didn't go entirely unnoticed. Sherlock tried not to flush and looked back down at his whisky._

_"You've been here, what, a year?" Victor continued, "how come we've never spoken before?"_

_"Because I am focused on my studies and you are concerned with trivialities like who ate the last blueberry yoghurt, who was the owner of the frilly knickers left in the hallway after the Christmas party and who cheated on the biochem exam. The answer to all three is Stephanie, by the way."_

_As soon as the words were out of his mouth Sherlock braced himself. Shit. He hadn't meant to blurt all of that out. As usual his brain and his mouth and run away with him. He waited for Victor to react. Whisky in the face? Not ideal, but bearable. He was unprepared for Victor's laughter._

_"Okay, how did you know that?"_

_"Simple, really. Stephanie was complaining about the missing teaspoons, which incidentally she is the cause of, as she prefers to eat yoghurt in bed and loses spoons down the side. She and Ian were rather close up until that last party, afterwards they would hardly meet each other's eye without one hastily diverting their gaze, couple that with the stubble burn on her neck and the lipstick on his sleeve, well, highly suggestive, if not conclusive. And she has an appallingly awful approach to revising, as evidenced by her last-minute panic in the library the night before the exam. There's no way she would be allowed to continue her studies without passing that exam and she walked out of that hall far too confident for someone with such a rudimentary grasp of the subject. Ergo, she cheated. Obvious."_

_Sherlock shut his mouth with a snap and waited while Victor stared at him. Then Victor was laughing again, clapping a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He tried not to flinch at the firm weight as Victor squeezed the bony nub of his shoulder and smiled shyly at Victor through his lashes. Victor grinned widely, downed the last of his whisky and headed to the door._

_"You're right about all that you know," he said, laughing again at Sherlock's 'of course I am' expression. "I dated Steph for a while before she hooked up with Ian, so I know those were her knickers! You're pretty interesting, though. Maybe I'll stop by again sometime, we can finish that bottle. Happy new year, Sherlock."_

_Victor winked and lightly brushed Sherlock's arm as he left, leaving behind an almost-full bottle of Glenfiddich and a brightly blushing Sherlock._

******

"What's the case then?"

John's voice breaks through Sherlock's thoughts, a welcome distraction. Sherlock pushes away memories of university, sealing them firmly behind a heavy door in his mind. He concentrates on the sound of John wandering about the flat, looking for his keys and phone. He's getting ready to drop everything - dinner, a quiet night in front of the telly - and accompany Sherlock on a case. Sherlock's chest is frantically tight with a surge of love for his best friend. Inappropriate. Stop it.

"Hm? Client works for the Conservatives, some kind of PR rubbish. One of their MPs has an embarrassing situation, wants me to handle it."

"Oh right. Expenses or something?" John says, lip curling in distaste. "I bloody hope not, Sherlock. Because I'm sure I don't want to help an MP fiddle money from the taxpayer," he finishes, arms folded and face grim.

Sherlock shakes his head and snorts. "No, not that. Seems the idiot left a laptop in a taxi, a laptop on which he'd been conducting an online affair with a mystery woman, and someone is now blackmailing him. Says he needs to pay up out of his personal wealth or they'll tell all to his wife. His divorce lawyer wife, the one with the ironclad pre nuptial agreement."

"Oh." John's voice is surprised. "And you're taking the case? Would've thought that was beyond dull for you, simple blackmail of a cheating twat."

Sherlock has no quick answer for that. He shrugs and gets out of his chair to collect his coat from its hook. His movements are as smooth as he can make them, betraying none of his underlying agitation. He's taking this case to a point prove to himself (and to Mycroft, the git). But he can't tell John that.

John frowns, shifts his weight from his left to his right side. Twinge in his leg? He hasn't felt that for ages, but he's clearly uncomfortable. Why would he be uncomfortable? John purses his lips and Sherlock is immediately seized by the urge to lick them gently until John sighs and kisses him fiercely. He bites his tongue and turns away from temptation, opening the door.

John sucks in a breath and nods once sharply, decision made. He follows Sherlock out of the flat and down the stairs. "What's the client's name then? Is he a local MP?"

"Byron Telford, Kensington," Sherlock replies, stepping onto the pavement and summoning a taxi. "We're meeting the Deputy PR Director first."

"Oh great, that'll be fun," John huffs sarcastically. "What do we know about him?"

More than we want to, Sherlock thinks a little sourly.

"Comes from an old, wealthy family, youngest of three children. Oxford graduate, PPE, tried to run for parliament a number of years ago, his bid ended in dismal failure and the loss of his deposit. Intelligent, superficially charming, vain as he is lazy," he says instead.

"Huh, sounds like you know him," John says. "Met him before?"

Sherlock nods. "His name is Victor Trevor."

******

Victor's office is opulent and plush; high ceiling, delicate cornicing, leather chairs and an enormous oak desk. Sherlock is unimpressed by the obvious attempt to convey self-importance and he senses John's discomfort. His spine stiffens and he straightens his shoulders, unconsciously adopting a military stance. Displays of wealth and grandeur always make him nervous, as though he is acutely aware of his own less privileged background. Ridiculous, Sherlock thinks, that anyone would look down their nose at John. He is a doctor and a soldier, for gods sake. Not exactly professions of the dim-witted or lazy. Sherlock loathes these types, having spent so much of his youth in their company. That they would look at John and dismiss him as ordinary is both a blessing and a source of great frustration.

"Ah, Sherlock, apologies for my tardiness. I hope you weren't waiting long?"

Victor's voice is exactly as Sherlock remembers it. Smooth, silky and grating. He braces himself and turns to accept the outstretched hand. "Victor," he replies softly. Victor's hand is warm and his grip firm, and Sherlock is instantly assaulted by a hundred unpleasant sense memories. He struggles to retain his aloof composure and forces himself to meet Victor's gaze. His eyes are the same bright, hazy blue as Sherlock remembers. To think he once thought them beautiful. Wrong. He knows now how wrong, now he has seen John's.

Victor finally releases Sherlock's hand and turns to John. "Dr Watson, I presume?" His voice has lost its softness, and now it sounds oily and greasy in the thick air of the office. John takes Victor's hand and shakes it once, a perfunctory gesture, before he drops it and falls back into parade rest at Sherlock's side.

"Please, have a seat gentlemen." Victor crosses to the large chair behind the desk and drapes himself into it. He is posing for Sherlock, drawing attention to his long limbs and tall frame, trying to command attention. Sherlock stares back at him evenly, then sits down in one of the stupidly expensive leather seats at the opposite side of the desk. John sits on the other, his posture stiff and his face outwardly friendly. Sherlock can read the tension in the lines of his body - shoulders set, feet planted, hands twitching, restless, in his knees.

"May I offer you some tea, coffee, brandy, perhaps a dram of Glenfiddich?" Victor's eyes gleam and Sherlock wants to recoil from the spark of desire showing in them. He recalls it all too clearly and it makes his skin crawl. Of course Victor would offer whisky. Keeping his voice steady, Sherlock declines.

"Maybe you should just get on with telling us your problems?" John cuts in. Victor's gaze turns to John momentarily before flicking dismissively back to Sherlock.

"Of course," he murmurs. He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a handful of papers. Emails, printed just this morning judging by the smudge of toner on the top sheet. He pushes the pile across towards Sherlock, just far enough that Sherlock has to get up to halfway standing to retrieve them.

Sherlock flicks through the conversations. Trite, overly sentimental tripe of the worst kind. The MP's prose is dripping with mixed metaphors and feeble attempts at poetic imagery. Cringeworthy indeed. He passes the emails to John, who stifles his snort of laughter when he gets to the part about the mystery lover's "eyes like pools of fresh water, glowing in the noonday sun.".

"Well, I hope Mr. Telford is a better politician than he is a poet," Sherlock says dryly. John bites his cheek and looks away, and Sherlock silently delights in his reaction. Victor clears his throat noisily.

"Yes, as you can see, rather a mess," he says with mock sympathy. "We've no idea who the woman is. Naturally Telford is panicking and wants the party to help him pay her off. This will not happen, but we do need the situation to be... Handled delicately. Not your usual area, as I understand it, Sherlock, but I am so very grateful that you would make an exception to help an old friend."

At this John's eyebrows make for his hairline at alarming speed. He clenches his hand a little around the paper, then makes himself release the fist when the rustle catches Victor's attention. Sherlock watches as Victor smiles slowly, enjoying catching John off-guard. Sherlock is puzzled, but decides to save John's apparent annoyance for analysis later. What he wants now is for Victor to stop looking at John like he's just beaten him to the last chocolate biscuit on the plate.

"Oh, didn't Sherlock tell you?" Victor is ostensibly asking John, but is looking directly at Sherlock.

"No. He neglected to mention you," John says blithely. Sherlock hears the steel beneath those words and wonders if Victor recognises it too.

"Oh my, Sherlock," Victor sighs. Clearly not recognising John's deadly calm, then. Victor finally drags his gaze away from Sherlock and fixes John with a brilliantly shallow smile.

"Sherlock and I were quite close at university. Oxford," he says with a wave of his hand. "He was pretty interesting, even back then. We drifted apart after graduation, sadly."

Drifted apart is a... choice phrase, Sherlock thinks. John's eyes flash with anger and something that looks a bit like jealousy, but before Sherlock can examine it properly it's gone, hidden behind his steely, stiff upper lip once more. John sniffs and they lapse into silence as Victor and John stare at one another, Sherlock growing restless and irritated between them. He stands briskly, eager to get out of the stuffy room.

"I'd like to speak to the MP's assistant," he announces, "come on John."

Victor stands as they make for the door. "Do let me know how you get on," he calls as they leave.

John's mouth twitches again and he resolutely does not look at Sherlock for a moment. He wants to know but he's too wound up to ask. Maybe Sherlock will tell him what happened with Victor, but for now there's a mildly distracting case to focus on. He tugs on John's jacket sleeve to get his attention. John looks up and tilts his head, waiting for Sherlock to lead the way.

Sherlock gestures to the long corridor of offices, and walking side by side, they search for the assistant.

******

_After the drink at New Year, Sherlock didn't see Victor again for a few days. The relative peace and quiet would soon be broken by the returning students, so Sherlock focused himself on his work once more. His studies were almost complete; only two terms left before he could leave and move on to postgraduate study._

_It wasn't until his birthday that they again crossed paths. Victor showed up unexpectedly, knocking at Sherlock's door. His timing was rather poor, as Sherlock had just added the last drops of solution to his experiment. He ignored the sound. Victor took no notice and pushed his way into the room._

_"Hey Sherlock," he greeted. Sherlock nodded in response. "What are you doing?"_

_"Experiment," Sherlock muttered, writing notes as the solution turned first green then orange. "Damn it." Now he'd lost focus and would have to repeat the reaction again. He snapped his head up and wavered for a moment when Victor smiled at him._

_"Did you want something?"_

_"Yes, actually. I was thinking you should join me for a drink," Victor said casually, crossing the room and leaning against the wardrobe next to Sherlock. Too close. Sherlock could smell his aftershave, deep and overtly masculine. For someone who apparently had no qualms about bedding men as well as women, Victor did take rather a lot of care to present himself as the alpha male as much as possible. It was almost as though, Sherlock reflected, he was doing the university's gay men a favour by bringing them into his bed as often as he did women._

_"Anyway," Victor was saying, "it is your birthday after all." Sherlock was startled out of his thoughts. Victor was grinning._

_"Thought you might like that," he pronounced._

_How the hell..? Oh, obvious. Victor had charmed the hall warden, who of course was on the lookout for Sherlock, as the youngest resident._

_"I didn't think I'd fool you long," Victor said, "but you can't blame me for trying!"_

_Sherlock snorted, and bit his lip to hold back a smile. Even if it was a silly ploy to get his attention, it was nice to have someone want his attention for once._

_"So..?" Victor asked, eyes sparkling triumphantly._

_"Not the Union," Sherlock stated, finally meeting Victor's eyes._

_"Not the Union," Victor echoed. "Right, I know this lovely little pub just down the road, come on."_

_He ushered Sherlock out of the door and they headed for the pub together._

_One drink turned into several and Sherlock found he felt relaxed enough in Victor's company to let his guard down just a little. The whisky flowed more easily and burned more pleasantly in his stomach as the night drew on, Victor's bright laughter at Sherlock's deductions of the other pub-goers making him feel warm. He realised that for the first time since Mycroft had gone away to university, he had enjoyed talking to someone and hadn't felt obliged to give too much of himself._

_They stumbled out of the pub at closing time and Sherlock was astonished at how quickly the evening had passed. They walked back to the halls slowly, close enough that their hands occasionally brushed. They got back to their hallway and stood outside Sherlock's door. Victor was grinning at him, like he had before, and he could feel the spark in Victor's eyes slipping all over his body. It was a little uncomfortable, to be looked at like that, like a prize to be won. But suddenly greedy for Victor's attention and really quite drunk, Sherlock soaked it in like a dry sponge. Praise passed Victor's lips easily and Sherlock was wondering what they might taste like when Victor kissed him._

_Nervous, unsure and overwhelmed, Sherlock did his best to keep up as Victor plundered into his mouth, tongue licking filthily against Sherlock's own. He'd never been kissed before and he wasn't certain it should really be this wet. When Victor finally pulled away he was grinning again._

_"See you soon, Sherlock Holmes," Victor murmured, pulling him close where he'd wrapped his arm around Sherlock. The touch was far from gentle, a possessive crush at Sherlock's waist. Victor finally released him and sauntered away to his end of the corridor._

_Sherlock fumbled with his door and collapsed onto his bed. He curled up under his sheets, experiments and studies long forgotten, and fell asleep with the feeling of Victor's hand gripping his hipbone._

******

"So of course, when he told me he'd left it in the taxi, I had to go straight to Mr. Trevor," the assistant (Jane? Janet? Jilly?) finishes, sighing heavily. "Nobody else knows about it, and Byron is getting so anxious. He's trying to scrape together the money, but Charlotte is bound to notice if he isn't careful."

John is nodding, looking sympathetic and sincere. Sherlock is only half-listening, inspecting the bookshelf behind the assistant's head. There are a worrying number of romance novels tucked amongst the files and paperwork, but one in particular catches Sherlock's eye.

It's all he needs to confirm that the assistant is masquerading as the mystery online woman and is behind the blackmail, probably due to her spurned advances. She is definitely (inexplicably) attracted to her boss and this case has turned out to be even more tedious than previously thought. If it weren't for the opportunity to prove the point about Victor, Sherlock would've dismissed this outright.

"Victoria Station," Sherlock announces. Jane or Janet or Jilly goes an odd shade of pink. Got you. He turns and walks away from the still-chattering Jane or Janet or Jilly and hears John's rushed, half-hearted apology behind him.

"So, solved it have you?" John asks, tone one of amusement as he follows, walking quickly to match Sherlock's long strides.

Sherlock scoffs. "Still need to find the laptop, but yes, I know who's responsible."

"Well, who is it then?" John says, grunting as Sherlock lets the heavy glass door go too early. A group of clerks in Savile Row's finest eye them warily as they pass by.

"Assistant," Sherlock whispers, bending to bring his mouth close to John's ear. The scent of John this close is intoxicating and Sherlock hastily pulls back lest he do something unforgivably idiotic, like touch his tongue to John's skin to see if he tastes as incredible as he smells. Not good.

John's own tongue darts out to lick his lips. Sherlock has to look away, digging his nails into his palm to calm himself. "So, what now?" John's keeping his voice low in the now-crowded corridor.

"Now, we observe," Sherlock says, grinning.

“'Surveillance, you mean?" John asks, trying not to laugh. "Watch her, see where she goes, catch her with the laptop?"

"Precisely, John. Victoria Station."

"Lead on, then." Sherlock thinks John should be facetious more often.

******

_After their kiss on Sherlock's birthday, Victor had starting turning up more often at the door of Sherlock's room, always unannounced. He would just let himself in, regardless of whether Sherlock responded to his knocking. Eventually, Victor stopped bothering with the knocks altogether._

_Most of the others in the corridor had whispered and giggled at first, but when Victor continued to lavish Sherlock with his attention, the whispers and giggles faded and turned decidedly more malicious. Sherlock continued to ignore it as best he could, and for his part, Victor was quick to dismiss any gossip or unfavourable rumours. Although he never said as much in company, Sherlock was a little grateful that Victor would praise him in private and tell him how stupid the rest of their classmates were._

_Things between them progressed quickly. Sherlock quietly told Victor things about his childhood, his brother, his family. Things he had never said aloud to another person in his life. Victor would listen for a little while, then take Sherlock's face roughly in his hands and kiss him breathless. Victor invited Sherlock to parties and laughed when Sherlock deduced his companions. Victor was always the centre of attention, wherever he went, and Sherlock became accustomed to the loud chatter and awful music and excessive alcohol consumption. He abstained as much as possible, preferring to keep his wits intact and his guard fully raised when not alone with Victor. Grudgingly, Victor conceded to this each time, and then swiftly proceeded to get thoroughly shitfaced on Sherlock's behalf. More often than not, a Friday night would end with Sherlock helping Victor to bed, accepting sloppy kisses and increasingly forceful tugs at his clothing. Victor would try to undress him, fingers uncoordinated and clumsy, and Sherlock would allow it only so far as Victor could manage before he fell asleep, snoring loudly into his pillows. Usually, this meant a half-undone shirt, Victor's saliva on his collar and a hand lazily groping his arse as Victor drifted off into sleep._

_Sherlock knew what Victor wanted, but he wasn't at all keen to bare his body or to be that vulnerable with someone, even the man he supposed was technically his boyfriend. Objectively speaking, he knew he must be vaguely attractive in some physical way; men and women alike had chatted him up in the past, albeit unsuccessfully. But he still felt nervous at the thought of being naked in the presence of another man, a man he had come to like very much. Perhaps even, a man he could come to love._

_Victor was so confident and assured in his body, knowing exactly how to use his appearance as a tool to charm. Sherlock mimicked the behaviour he observed, testing to see if it could also be used to his advantage. He was able to gain access to the university's special collections, additional lab hours, a deadline extension, and even a smile and a new tea kettle from the hall warden by employing Victor's techniques. It was all shamming of course, and it ultimately left him feeling empty and bored. He craved true affection, a gentle and tender touch. A genuine connection with another. Things he thought Victor would be capable of and perhaps willing to bestow._

_It was with this in mind that he finally gave in to Victor's pleading and cajoling, and, with final exams emptying the halls as students camped in the library to revise, he let Victor take him to bed._

_The light in Victor's eyes as he locked the door behind them was predatory and unnerving. Sherlock had only been in Victor's room a handful of times since they'd known each other, and his eyes took in every detail in a flash. The room was neat, bland and orderly. There were a few odd items stashed here and there, but generally it gave away very little of its occupant._

_Victor leaned his back against the door and watched Sherlock observing and deducing. When Sherlock turned back to face him, he pushed off the door with his foot and pulled Sherlock into a rough kiss. His hands were roaming, gripping onto Sherlock's arse and waist as the kiss turned messy and biting. Sherlock moaned in the back of his throat and tried to hold on under Victor’s onslaught, but things were moving too quickly. It was too much too fast and his brain felt horribly muddled._

_Victor was wrestling his shirt off and yanking down his trousers, his fist too tight around Sherlock's half-hard penis. Sherlock yelped and tried to pull away, but Victor's arms around his back stopped him. Victor fidgeted and slowed down, making soothing shushing noises and lightly kissing Sherlock’s neck. Gradually Sherlock calmed and relaxed into the still-tight embrace._

_"Good, that's good," Victor mumbled in his ear, his hand wandering back into Sherlock's pants. He stroked Sherlock's erection none too carefully, but by this time Sherlock was too far gone to protest. His breath was coming in heavy pants and he felt his orgasm building in his belly. Victor kissed him, hard again, and removed his hand from Sherlock's cock to rest on his shoulders. Sherlock groaned at the loss of touch and opened his eyes._

_"Come on," Victor said, sitting down at the edge of the bed and spreading his legs for Sherlock to stand between. He pushed Sherlock down to his knees and lay back on the bed, one hand reaching into his own trousers to pull out his cock. Victor stroked himself lazily and stared at Sherlock through heavily lidded eyes. Sherlock glanced at Victor's cock and unconsciously licked his lower lip._

_Victor's eyes flashed triumphantly and he sighed, continuing his strokes. He placed his other hand in Sherlock's hair and pulled him towards his crotch._

_"Oh yes, you're going to be good at this, I can tell," Victor said. "Your mouth was just made for sucking my cock, wasn't it?" Sherlock hesitated, suddenly unsure. Victor groaned in frustration._

_"You're not just going to leave me like this, are you?"_

_"No," Sherlock whispered, and taking a deep breath lowered his mouth to tentatively lick at the glistening head. Victor hissed in pleasure as Sherlock took in more of him and he twisted his fingers into Sherlock's curls. The sting of pain when he tugged on them made Sherlock gasp around his mouthful of cock, but he was careful to avoid any teeth coming into play._

_Victor was moaning loudly now, both hands fisted in Sherlock's hair. He began to thrust up into Sherlock's mouth, causing him to choke and gag. Sherlock tried to lift his head away to breathe properly, but Victor was close now and held him still with his grip in Sherlock's hair. Tears pricked Sherlock's eyes as Victor used him and suddenly there was a sharp gasp. Victor's thrusts stuttered and he spilled, hot and bitter, into Sherlock's throat._

_He finally let go of Sherlock's hair and Sherlock was able to pull back and take a few shuddering breaths, swallowing as much of the hot fluid in his mouth as he could. He sat back on his heels, feeling slightly dazed and more than a little uncomfortable. That wasn't how he'd imagined things would go, but Victor seemed satisfied. He was lounging back on the bed, his softening cock still poking out of his trousers, one arm slung over his face. Sherlock's arousal had wilted completely._

_The room was quiet for a moment, Sherlock listening to Victor's breathing. Eventually Victor sat up, tucked himself back in and zipped up his jeans. He moved to lie down properly on the bed and patted the space beside him, beckoning Sherlock to join him._

_Sherlock lay down and Victor curled his arm around Sherlock's waist, letting him lean back into his body. Sherlock tucked his head under Victor's chin and felt his breath puffing into his hair. It was more pleasant than giving Victor the blow job had been, but there was still something missing._

_"Hmm, you're interesting, Sherlock Holmes," Victor murmured as he dropped off to sleep._

_Sherlock stared up at the ceiling in the dark, wondering what, if anything, would ever fill the hole in his chest._

******

Sherlock dumps the laptop unceremoniously onto Victor's desk, startling him from his paper.

"You recovered it then? Good for you," Victor says, a hint of the old pride in his voice at Sherlock's cleverness. Sherlock bristles rather than preens; at least John's praise is always sincere.

"Yes, it was the assistant. Spurned advances, revenge blackmail. Boring."

"I see," says Victor ponderously. "Well, I certainly appreciate the speed with which you have resolved this matter," he goes on, drawing a chequebook from his drawer and an ostentatious pen from his pocket.

"To whom do I address this?"

Sherlock snorts and turns his back, so very ready to leave Victor's company and the memories that refuse to go away. John steps forward and Victor signs the cheque without bothering to add a recipient name, pulling it from the book with a flourish. He hands it to John, meeting John's eye for the first time.

"May I have a moment alone with Sherlock?"

John immediately stiffens and he looks over at Sherlock standing by the window. Sherlock wonders what game Victor is trying to play now. All he wants to do is go home, forget this case and Victor, and lose himself in John's quiet presence in the comfort of their flat.

"Please?" Victor asks, his voice deliberately low and disarming. Sherlock suppresses his shudder at the familiar, grating tone.

John looks up at him and Sherlock nods. Something like anger, resignation and jealousy flicker across John's face and he executes a perfect military turn before marching out of the office and slamming the door behind him. Victor chuckles and Sherlock narrows his eyes, puzzling why the hell he ever agreed to this in the first place.

Victor stands and walks over to join him at the window. Sherlock wants to fidget and move away; Victor always stood too close. It's comforting, welcomed when he's this close to John. But with Victor it feels like an invasion of his space, as though Victor is once again laying claim to his body by mere proximity. Ownership, as opposed to partnership. Victor lifts his hand to rest on Sherlock's shoulder.

"It's been so long, Sherlock. I want to see if you're still interesting. Have dinner with me. San Marco's at eight, tonight."

"And John?"

"Just the two of us, I'd like to catch up. Properly."

Sherlock finds himself agreeing and he sweeps out of the office without another word.

John is waiting for him outside, holding a cab home for them. They get in and ride in silence for a few moments before John speaks up.

"What did he want, then?" John asks brusquely, his fingers almost white where they're gripping his denim-clad knees. Sherlock looks away out of the window, watching London's streets and houses and shops and traffic pass by. The pace and size of the city outside has always been a source of comfort. He sighs and closes his eyes.

"Well?" John asks. Sherlock can sense him twitching. He's softened his tone, as though he knows Sherlock wants to tell him something, but won't be pushed.

Finally Sherlock speaks.

"He wanted to know if I'm still interesting," Sherlock says quietly.

John snorts.

"Of course you are, you always are. You're bloody brilliant," he says, a little more sharply than usual. "But he knows that. So what did he actually want?"

Sherlock takes a moment to soak in John's praise; even when it's delivered in anger, it still means more to him than anyone's words ever have, even Mycroft's and Mummy's. Kindness given through choice, not familial obligation or necessity. Kindness given simply because John wants to give it.

"He wants me to have dinner with him, tonight," Sherlock says, turning to look John straight in the face. John's mouth twitches angrily. Interesting reaction, Sherlock thinks, but he has no more time to analyse it as John looks away and down at his hands. He forces himself to take his clenched fists off his knees and shoves them in his jacket pockets.

"Oh," is all he says. They lapse into silence for the rest of the journey.

******

_Sherlock's relationship with Victor fell into a pattern over the last couple of months before the end of term. Victor would turn up either completely drunk or high, or well on his way to it, drag Sherlock from whatever he was occupied with and they would have some kind of sex in Victor's room. More often than not, Sherlock would bring Victor to orgasm then curl up in Victor's arms, waiting for him to fall asleep. The small level of comfort and closeness to be taken in simply being held by another, someone who professed to care, would make Sherlock feel wanted, even for a short time, before he'd go crawling back to his own room. Sometimes Victor would stroke Sherlock to completion, whispering kind words in his ear as he came. Gradually though, Victor's easy praise and occasional affection dwindled, and Sherlock found himself adrift._

_Sherlock struggled to focus on his studies, thoughts of Victor and when he might next have chance to see him, be held and listened to and to feel cared for, filling his mind into the early hours. He took to rapidly finishing his final assignments, meaning that he had plenty of free time to pace in his room, taking notes on his experiments and trying to distract himself from his flake of a boyfriend._

_Things finally came to a head one Wednesday afternoon. Sherlock hadn't seen Victor since the previous week, when Victor had barged into his room at 4am, high as a kite on god knows what, dragged him out of bed and pushed him to his knees. Sherlock had sleepily protested when Victor unzipped himself and pulled out his still-soft cock, but duly set to work licking and stroking. Whatever drugs Victor had taken were obviously having an effect on him. He couldn't get it up. After a few minutes of pointless attentions Victor pushed Sherlock away in disgust and frustration, stalking out of the room and slamming the door behind him._

_Fed up with Victor's constant hot and cold moods, his drinking and drug use, Sherlock had taken it upon himself to find out where the hell things stood. He thought for a brief second about knocking at Victor's door before going in, but given how many times Victor had just barged into his room he felt justified in going straight in._

_The sight that greeted him was not what he'd expected. Victor was kneeling upright on the bed, naked, buried to the hilt in an equally naked Sebastian Wilkes. The rush of cold air from Sherlock opening the door is what actually got their attention, rather than the feeling of being watched or the fact they'd been caught. Even when Victor noticed Sherlock standing in the doorway, he continued thrusting lazily into Seb._

_"Either join in or get the fuck out," Victor panted, slapping Seb's arse when he sniggered beneath him. Sherlock opened his mouth to launch into a tirade, but stopped when Victor turned to look at him._

_"What?!" Victor snapped. "Did you think I'd go on forever putting up with you, with your lousy blow jobs and constant bloody need for cuddling? You wouldn't even let me fuck you!"_

_Tears stung Sherlock's eyes and he turned on his heel and fled._

_Exams over, graduation approaching, Sherlock found himself directionless. He had long since completed his studies, only staying at the university to use the labs for his experiments and, he'd hoped, to patch things up with Victor. Now he wandered about the campus, contemplating his return to London. He'd have to live with Mycroft, at first, but he'd find a place of his own soon enough. His postgraduate studies could wait; he didn't think he would like to be on another campus any time soon._

_Eventually, he'd returned to his room. He began packing up the few things he wanted to take with him and called Mycroft to tell him bluntly he had completed his courses, hanging up before his brother could reply._

_He was rummaging in his wardrobe for his pocket magnifier, thinking of the merits and drawbacks of joining the Met police force, when Victor appeared in his doorway._

_"I'd say I'm sorry you had to see that, but I really did mean it when I said you could join in," Victor told him. Sherlock refused to respond. He grasped the magnifier and stood to pull on his coat._

_Victor sighed and shifted in the doorway, blocking Sherlock's exit._

_"Get out of my way," Sherlock hissed, brushing past him. Victor stopped him with a firm grip of his elbow. He leaned in, smelling of too-strong cologne and yesterday's beer._

_"Oh Sherlock," he muttered with mock concern. "It was fun while it lasted, but let's face it, you're not exactly the boyfriend type, are you?"_

_Sherlock froze. He'd never called Victor his boyfriend out loud, only in his head, but that's what it had felt like. Well, in the beginning. Victor had always called him his "friend,", never boyfriend, and Sherlock was starting to see why. How many other men (and women) had Victor cheated on him with over the past few months?_

_Victor's mouth was so close to his ear now, his hot breath hatefully tickling Sherlock's skin. Sherlock tried to wrench his arm free, but Victor wrapped his other arm around Sherlock's waist, the crushingly possessive gesture he used when he couldn't immediately get Sherlock to do exactly as he wanted._

_Victor's voice was low and mocking when he whispered in Sherlock's ear one last time before letting him go._

_"You were so interesting at the start, you know. Now you're just... Boring."_

_Sherlock's eyes prickled with tears, and he pushed past Victor, making blindly for the stairs and the outside world. The satisfaction on Victor's face at making him cry was the last straw. He would find a quiet spot and re-erect all of his walls, crush the disappointment and hurt and lock them securely away in his mind palace._

_He would remain alone, from now on. Alone would be what he would have, alone would protect him._

******

Sherlock steps into the flat at Baker Street and hangs up his coat. John takes off his jacket, hangs it next to Sherlock's beloved Belstaff and goes straight into the kitchen, banging cupboard doors and clattering pots and jars as he attempts to make tea. Sherlock listens to him for a minute then John comes marching out of the kitchen and goes up to his room.

Sherlock wanders through and clears the mess that John's made with the cups and milk and teapot, puts the kettle on to boil and leans back against the counter to think.

He'd accepted Victor's invitation to dinner on a whim and now he regrets it. He'll see it through of course, if only to crush Victor by rejecting him. It's a bit petty and childish, but Sherlock can't help but seek some small revenge against a man who broke his heart. A man who still sees him as a challenge, a conquest, a fun toy to be played with and then discarded when the novelty wears off.

John's reaction to Victor isn't wholly unexpected. He's always been somewhat protective of Sherlock, but never in a deliberately condescending way. Mycroft's overly solicitous 'protection' extends to monitoring him judiciously; John on the other hand joins him in his mad capers across London, only acting to make sure he doesn't harm himself through sheer carelessness or deliberate recklessness. Sherlock has always known his instincts for self-preservation were never that strong. He does not plan to examine why this is; self-awareness only goes so far.

John had seemed jealous when Sherlock accepted Victor's invitation. But that can't be the right interpretation, surely? John has no reason to be jealous; firstly he's not gay. Victor may be handsome, but he's also an insufferable arsehole, so it can't be that John wishes to be going to dinner in place of Sherlock. What is he missing here?!

His thoughts are interrupted by his mobile, the text tone pinging in his pocket. Sherlock pulls out the phone and huffs in annoyance at the name on the screen.

**Dinner? MH**

**Yes, dinner. SH**

**Very well. I am given to understand that revenge is a dish best served cold. MH**

**Do remember, however, that a home-cooked meal is often more fulfilling. MH**

**What? Have you been at the sherry raisin biscuits again? SH**

**Enjoy San Marco's, dear brother. I highly recommend the veal escalope. MH**

**Oh, and thank you. Mr. Telford's assistant has been redeployed. MH**

Sherlock is still frowning at his phone when John comes downstairs. He peeks into the kitchen just long enough to catch Sherlock staring at the device in his hand then reaches past Sherlock for the whisky and a glass. He goes to the sitting room and settles into his chair.

"You're going to be late."

Sherlock silently puts his phone away and makes his way to his bedroom to change. He pulls on his favourite plum shirt, the one that makes John's eyes linger at his throat, he tidies his hair and critically appraises himself in the mirror. Fleetingly, he wishes it were John taking him to dinner, John who would smile at him as he arrived at the restaurant, maybe kiss his cheek in greeting, make him order dessert. They'd drink a bottle of wine together, sharing teasing touches and light kisses in the taxi home. Then John would take him to bed, take him apart and hold him close as he pulled his scattered pieces back to one whole.

Sherlock desperately wants that. Instead he'll have to settle for Victor's obvious advances, his forceful flirting and sleazy touch. It'll be fun to reject him, and maybe later he can tell John how he'll make a fool of Victor. John will sigh, tell him, "bit not good, Sherlock,", then laugh and agree that the bastard deserved it anyway.

Sherlock walks back through the flat and gets into his coat. John's eyes do linger on his throat, then John blinks and looks away guiltily. He opens his mouth and Sherlock waits, trying not to let the kernel of hope in his chest develop into anything.

"Sherlock..." John starts. He sighs, then stares intently into his whisky glass. "Have fun," he says quietly.

Sherlock turns to leave, unaccountably disappointed, and John lets him go.

******

Dinner is disastrous. Victor is his usual charming self, flirting with Sherlock despite his lack of interest or response. He is already waiting at the table when Sherlock arrives, and everything he does grates in a way Sherlock is sure it would never do, were it John. Pulling out his chair, handing him a menu and letting their fingers brush, pouring his wine. It all feels wrong. Because it's Victor.

Victor is rambling on about something he finds terribly funny, because he keeps stopping to chuckle into his glass, but Sherlock isn't paying the slightest bit of attention. He's been pushing his food around the plate and has hardly taken more than three bites. Mycroft was right about one thing, the veal is exceptional. It's the company that Sherlock finds lacking.

"Sherlock? You haven't touched your wine," Victor says, pulling him back forom his thoughts. He glances down at the full glass beside him. Muscadet. Sherlock hates very dry whites.

"Why did you invite me here?" Sherlock demands, suddenly angry. "You don't want to talk, you were never interested in me beyond the challenge of chasing me. So what do you want?"

Victor's eyes darken and he tips his head. The gesture, Sherlock supposes, is meant to be seductive, but to Sherlock it just seems oddly reptilian. Victor drains his glass and dabs delicately at his mouth.

"I want what I wanted all those years ago," Victor says, smirking. "I want to fuck you."

He leans forward and takes Sherlock's hand. His grip is clammy and too tight. Sherlock twitches and pulls away.

"Oh, come on, don't be like that. We can even call Seb; he'll jump at the chance to join us. Did I ever tell you what he said, that night you caught us? He was desperate to get you under him, that pretty mouth on his cock..."

Sherlock snorts. This was a mistake.

"I heard about your... troubles, of course. After uni. Then that horrible business with, what was his name, Morrison? Murray?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock whispers unthinkingly.

"Yes, that's him," Victor says, smiling. "I wonder, did he enjoy you? Your little doctor seems keen too, maybe we should invite him along as well?" He chuckles again at the look of disgust on Sherlock's face. "God, you always were such a prude," he says, pouring himself another glass of wine. "S'ok though," Victor continues harshly. "I'll soon fuck that out of you."

Sherlock pauses to take a breath. He'd seen the evidence in Victor's office and now he wants to choose his words carefully.

"I'd sooner drink a gallon of this pisswater you call wine through a dirty straw than let you anywhere near my arse," Sherlock announces, loud enough that the other tables can hear him. "And furthermore, you may think that you've gotten away with your little expenses fiddle, but I assure you it is obvious to anyone who cares to take a closer look at your records. I should think about that when speaking to your superiors about that little mess I tidied up for you today. Oh, and just so we're clear, my 'troubles' are well and truly over. Yours, however, returned not so long ago, judging by the poor repair work to your septum. You really ought to consider a better plastic surgeon to mend that kind of damage. Good evening, Victor."

Without another word, he stands and walks away, leaving Victor spluttering angrily at his retreating back. Sherlock ignores him, ignores the startled waiting staff and gossiping patrons, his mind fixed on home.

******

Dinner with Victor confirmed it in Sherlock's mind. No matter what, he has to tell John how he feels. He cannot imagine his life without John in it now, and even if it destroys him, he has to say it. He knows he'll never feel this way about anyone other than John. Time to stop hiding and running.

He stops at the foot of the stairs, listening to John pace in the flat above. Right. Into battle.

Sherlock opens the flat door and walks in, head held high. John stops pacing and turns to face him. Before Sherlock can open his mouth to speak, John is rushing over, grasping the lapels of his coat and crushing their mouths together. The shock of John's rough kiss makes Sherlock stumble and he puts an arm out behind him to steady himself against the door.

John pulls back and immediately steps away, looking apologetic and furious with himself at the same time. He drops his hands to his sides and curses, taking a few steps into the living room. Sherlock stands up from where he'd been leaning against the door and cautiously follows. He touches his fingers to his lips, thrilled to still be able to feel the pressure of John on the tender skin there.

John is pacing again and when Sherlock tries to speak again, John shushes him with a hand held up and a harsh bark of sullen laughter.

"Shit, Sherlock, I'm sorry," John says. "That was... I'm sorry, it shouldn't have happened like that."

"John," Sherlock starts to reply but John cuts him off.

"No, just, just listen, will you?" he says sharply. "I can't, I mean, I..." he trails off and sniffs angrily, looking down at himself. Sherlock stays silent, unsure if interrupting will disrupt John's train of thought. They may never get another chance to hash this out in the open, and for once, Sherlock refuses to be cowed by fear of his feelings.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John says finally. "I've been waiting here, hoping you'd blow off that prick Victor and come home, and when you came in just now, I couldn't stand to think that he'd... That you... I'm sorry, I just took what I wanted and that was wrong. It's not how I wanted our first kiss to be."

Sherlock is thrown. "Wha...?" he begins, internally cursing his sudden inarticulateness.

"I was so jealous, Sherlock. I wanted to punch Victor in his stupid, pretty face when he asked to speak to you alone. I know what that means, and I don't... If you'd like to keep seeing him, I won't object. Although I really do think you could do better." John snorts, rubbing a hand through his hair.

"You could have anyone you wanted Sherlock. I mean that. You're brilliant, and funny, and sure you can be caustic and arrogant and a bloody twat sometimes, but you care. You care so much Sherlock, and I just... I want you to be happy, that's all. I hoped, maybe, you might be happy with me. But, you know, if Victor's who you want, then... It's fine. It's all fine."

John pauses and stands with his back to Sherlock, facing the windows. He looks small, defeated, his shoulders hunched. He rubs his face with his hand again and suddenly straightens up. Ever the soldier, facing adversity with his head held high.

"John," Sherlock says carefully, approaching him and reaching out a hand to turn him around. John lets Sherlock move him and they stand facing one another, meeting each other's gaze for the first time since Sherlock came home.

"John," Sherlock starts, frowning. How best to say this? Just come out with it? John, don't be an idiot, I love you, I've always loved you, Victor is a twat, yes I wish you had punched him, I'd have liked to see that, do you really think I'm funny, I'd be happiest with you John, kiss me John, please.

John's expression clouds and Sherlock realises he still hasn't said anything. He takes a deep breath and puts his hands on John's shoulders, lightly just to stop him walking away. Sherlock bites his lower lip and finally takes the plunge.

"How did you want our first kiss to be?" he asks quietly.

John closes his eyes briefly then smiles. He looks up at Sherlock, his face completely open. Sherlock is stunned by what he sees there. John's eyes hold pure adoration in them, his smile so bright Sherlock wonders if John actually is made of light, rather than simply conducting it as he himself had said so long ago. He's beautiful, Sherlock thinks, greedily drinking in every detail, every line, every contour of John's lovely face.

John's hand comes up from his side and he brushes Sherlock's cheek with the backs of his fingers, drawing the touch down Sherlock's neck and to his open collar. John's hand comes to rest at his clavicle, the other rising to settle on Sherlock's waist. John's eyes are asking, checking that this is ok. Sherlock tilts his head in acceptance.

"May I show you?" John asks. Sherlock gives a tiny nod and John, still smiling, leans up as Sherlock moves down so their mouths can meet.

The kiss is soft, no more than a chaste press of lips. It's more tender than anything Sherlock has ever experienced, sweeter than anything he could've imagined. When John pulls away Sherlock gasps and keeps his eyes tightly closed, as if to open them would shatter the dream he must be having.

"Sherlock?" All right?" John says, reaching up to brush Sherlock's hair back from his face, twining his fingers into the curls behind his ear.

"Yes," Sherlock breathes, opening his eyes to blink at the man in whose arms he will always want to be.

"Good," John says, "then I'm doing that again."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees, and eagerly accepts John's kiss once more.

******

There aren't any grand declarations or heartfelt confessions or pledges of undying devotion. Instead there are two men finally knowing what each means to the other. Their deepest love is expressed in gentle touches, late nights with legs entwined in bed, whispers and laughter, and quiet, sincere affection. There is still many an argument, words thrown carelessly and hurtfully in the heat of the moment, shouting and anger and, very occasionally, tears.

But each time, John calms and comes back, Sherlock apologises and explains. They work at being better for each other. John learns to let Sherlock have all of himself. Sherlock learns to trust that John's love is unconditional. Sherlock makes sure he treasures John, John in turn cherishes Sherlock. They keep learning, because it's not perfect. Nothing ever is. But it is love.


End file.
